


The Judas kiss

by Residesatshamecentral



Category: SS-GB (TV)
Genre: Angst, Archer is guilt ridden, Established Relationship, Huth cares, Poor Archer, Sylvia is a murder kitten, good grief, poor huth, star crossed lovers, that is really the point, who thought that tag would ever appear in a Nazi-related relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-11-11 07:01:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11143278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Residesatshamecentral/pseuds/Residesatshamecentral
Summary: Written for me-fish's Prompt: 'Huth has noticed how Archer's changed ever since he came to Germany; how he grows more weary and bitter and unhappy every day. He presents Archer with a way out. "Let it never be said that I didn't love you enough to let you go."'





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I had some extra documents printed today.” He spoke suddenly, brittlely, as though he had rehearsed the lines.

The clock was old. The loud tick filled the room intrusively. Archer closed his eyes and focussed on the sound. The loud clack-clack-clack, slicing off the seconds into the night.

Huth stood by the window. He had put his shirt back on and was studying the view, seemingly lost in thought. Archer studied his silhouette against the light of the streetlamp. All day he had had the impression that Huth was turning something over in his mind. Was it a proposition for a new mission, he wondered. Or would he ask a favour? Often he had looked up to see Huth’s eyes on him, an uneasy calculation mixed with concern. Perhaps he was wondering if he had invested in a lost cause, thought Archer. They had both taken a gamble, when he came to Berlin, on that Archer would prove to be when exposed to the crucible.

Of course, Huth might be in doubt of his loyalty. There was always that possibility, even now. The defeat of Mayhew’s forces and the subsequent mop-up had left him unscathed, only because Huth had arranged it that way. Archer thought of his few, tenuous contacts in the resistance and felt the remains of something twitch. If Huth was going to question him about them, he could honestly state his innocence. But still… He had capitulated, that was true. He had signed his soul over, and taken Huth’s hand. Did he really have it in him to betray the man now? The question stood against the night, answer-less.

Huth interrupted his thoughts. “I had some extra documents printed today.” He spoke suddenly, brittlely, as though he had rehearsed the lines.

“Oh?” said Archer, raising an eyebrow. Huth ignored him and continued, pulling a small brown folder from his briefcase as he spoke.

“I used that little criminal forger we spoke to over the Black Iris case. He can rival the best, and has to keep his mouth shut. These should get you through any official obstructions.” He pulled two passports from the folder and held them uncertainly. He seemed in two minds as to hand them to Archer or toss them into the wastepaper basket.

The silence became awkward. “Are you sending me out of the country then?” Said Archer. A dark suspicion crept into his thoughts. “You seem…” he sat up and searched Huth’s eyes. There was a darkness and a tension and a hate he had never seen there. “What is this? Are you afraid for my life?” Huth bit his lip, avoided his gaze. “I thought we were past that stage of the relationship where you might send me on a suicide mission." said Archer darkly. "What else is in the folder?”

Huth sat on the edge of the bed and passed the documents over silently. Archer drew them out. Two plane tickets to America. Passports. Birth certificates. All business as usual except…

He met Huth’s eyes “Why is my son’s face on some of these documents?”

The silence stretched out dangerously.

“Because you would never want to start a new life without him” replied Huth softly.

Archer blinked. He felt completely wrong-footed. “What -”

“I cannot watch you any longer” interrupted Huth. He was not looking at Archer at all, staring unseeingly at a patch of wall, rattling off his words as though eager to get rid of them. “You are miserable, we both know it, it is changing you and I will not be responsible for your misery. Do you know that you look defeated, Archer? I have seen slaves in the concentration camps. I come back and see a shadow of the same expression on your face and it makes me feel physically sick, it really does.” Archer said nothing, clutching the faked passport. He felt the texture of the leather under his fingers. “I don’t apologise…” continued Huth “no, that is wrong, perhaps I should apologise…I have always believed in success, Douglas. You accused me once of having no moral compass and that it true, I don’t, not in the sense you seem to. I value different things. I saw you, what you could become, and I did not realise what it would do to you. What I would do to you. Yes, I apologise…”

“You want to send me away” Huth jerked his head, half-nod, half twitch of disgust. “What about…” Archer gestured between them. Huth stood up abruptly and went back to the window.

“It is up to you if you let that stop you” he said over his shoulder. Archer was silent, looking from the sheaf of documents, his escape route, to the man looking out into the night with an expression that bordered on savagery.

“You used to say that selfishness was a principle of your life” he said softly. Huth barked a little chuckle of affirmation. “What changed?” said Archer softly.

Huth turned and looked into his eyes blankly, dropping all attempts at a mask “You did” he said quietly. “You did. You changed me, Douglas.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There is nothing to keep me here” he said slowly. He heard a tiny intake of breath and continued remorselessly. “I only found one thing of value here, you know what it is. But there is nothing to keep you either.”

Archer held his gaze for several seconds, then dropped it to the passport again. There is a species of embarrassment that comes with seeing deep honesty. Huth watched him dryly. Even now, he seemed able to draw a bitter amusement out of the situation.

“You never thought I would say it did you?” he whispered. “Neither did I.” He turned his back again and braced himself against the windowsill. The view outside was darkness, broken by irregular squares of light. “If you leave I will have that much, Douglas, the knowledge that you changed me.” Archer was silent. He thought of the past months, acres and acres of emotional deadland broken by nights spent together, the only moments in life when he felt that he could touch someone and feel. Two nights ago Huth had gripped him cruelly, hissing into his ear, a promise, a threat, a claim. Archer had dreamed in blood red and gold that night.

He had his son, it was true, but they day was coming when he would be unable to meet his son’s eyes. That shadow was a horror that darkened every morning. That in itself was a barrier.

He looked up, his face limpid. “There is nothing to keep me here” he said slowly. He heard a tiny intake of breath and continued remorselessly. “I only found one thing of value here, you know what it is. But there is nothing to keep you either.” Huth half turned, his face not quite in profile.

“I have a great deal to stay for” he said crisply “They will promote me to General soon. Springer always said -”

“I can do without your Oedipus complex right now thanks, we are trying to have a serious conversation” interrupted Archer. “You are obsessed with your career out of habit, and you formed that habit trying to please your father. An all-round bastard who is thankfully dead.” He stood slowly, placing the passport carefully with the other documents. “Nothing keeps you here. Not really. Nothing but habit. And reflexive fear of losing, perhaps.” He paced slowly toward Huth, who twitched the curtains shut and turned to face him. They locked eyes. “I think you are hoping to keep me here, actually. With your presence. These little speeches are not like you.”

Huth’s lip rose, curled into an angry smirk. For once, he seemed at a loss for words. Archer’s eyes burned into his.

“You want me to make the decision for you, whether you are aware of that or not. Tell me” he bit the words out softly “have you ever really taken a leap in your life?” Their faces were inches away, voices barely above a whisper. Unconsciously, Huth gripped Archer’s shoulders, curled his fingers tight enough to hurt. “You let your father drive you until you drove yourself. You have something of your own to act for. I am not going to let you sit on your arse and make yourself miserable, just out of force of habit.”

A moment passed, stretched out into a private age. Their faces were close. Outside, a car passed, tyres hissing softly in the recent rain. The headlights illuminated the curtains, made them an amber backdrop to the still men. Passed. Darkness dropped again outside the window.  

Huth laughed softly into Archer’s parted lips and let his head fall forward. Their foreheads touched and Archer wrapped his arms around Huth’s neck. They stood like that for a while, heads together, listening to the sound of the others breathing.

Eventually, Archer leaned back, face calm. “You need documents.”


	3. Living Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylvia met his eyes, across the cold and bustling space of the airport, and Archer felt the past rush darkly into the present, the cold and the chaos of that last dreadful night when she had vanished in a storm of gunfire.

Tension is a strange thing. It tightens the nerves, heightens the senses, and makes relaxation impossible. It is a gift from evolution, keeping the body constantly in a fight-or-flight state while making survival - for someone attempting to act normal in any case - paradoxically difficult. All in all, tension is at best a mixed blessing, particularly for someone about to flee the country who is obliged to wait in the airport for an interminable time.

Archer sipped his coffee. It was ersatz – since the war had begun to heat up, one saw less and less real coffee on the market, at higher and higher prices.

“Just relax” he muttered between his teeth to Huth. The man was even worse at dealing with the wait than he was. In the space of half an hour he had picked an entirely pointless argument with a stall owner, bought three packets of nuts for no reason and intimidated an innocent bystander.  At present he was pretending to read the newspaper, drumming an intricate rhythm on his knee with the fingers of his left hand. He replied almost soundlessly, barely moving his lips, a technique taught in the SS to give lip readers trouble.

“That guard over there has been watching us lately.”

“Probably because you bothered the stall owner. Just relax, things will be fine. We don’t have to wait much longer.”

“I think -” Huth broke off and a hand gripped Archer’s wrist. “ _look!_ ” the breathy hiss between unmoving lips was almost reptilian. Huth’s face was an unmoving mask of hard lines. He jerked his head toward the entrance, not moving another muscle. Archer followed his gaze, bewildered, searching the crowd.

It was Sylvia.

The world dropped away for a moment.

She was moving carefully through the crown like a faun in dangerous territory, deliberately not eyeing the guards. She looked thinner. Her hair was done up in a smooth knot at the nape of her neck, and was darker than he remembered it. She wore a pair of round, black-rimmed glasses that made her look like a small-town librarian, and over her shoulder was a worn leather bag. The collar of her trench coat was turned up – a bad touch, a suspicious-looking touch, he thought – her cheekbones strangely pale and prominent above the dark grey fabric. But the greatest change was in the way she moved. There was an unconscious graceful furtiveness there now, the body language of a prey animal. She did not appear to have noticed them.

 Sylvia. He felt Huth’s grip on his wrist tighten and then slip away as he stood up.

“Don’t!” muttered Huth behind him, as she turned and looked directly into his eyes.

There are moments out of time, when our past meets the present and time stretches. Sylvia met his eyes, across the cold and bustling space of the airport, and Archer felt the past rush darkly into the present, the cold and the chaos of that last dreadful night when she had vanished in a storm of gunfire.

_…Harry’s blood coiling slowly in the dark water, like the gentle tendrils of some sea creature…_

Sylvia’s face contorted suddenly, turning from recognition to blank shock to an indescribable mix of emotions. She raised her left hand unconsciously in a gesture of relief, of recognition and friendship, even as the other suddenly gripped her bag tightly. As though at a signal, she broke into a fast walk, stepping smartly through the crowds in the other direction, moving away from Archer as fast as she could without being seen to be running. Without thinking Archer gave chase, pushing through the crowd, ignoring Huth’s muttered expletive behind him.

“Sylvia.” He caught up with her, gripped her arm, feeling with unnatural clarity the rough cloth under his fingers.

“I’m sorry, you have the wrong person.” She kept her face partly turned away. Close to, he could see the small pink marks the grips of the glasses left on the bridge of her nose, the tightness in her jaw, the small coils of hair at the bottom of her hairline. Her muscles were clenched, like iron under his hand.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know me. You were never good at pretending, Sylvia.” He looked around, desperately for somewhere to talk. They must not make a scene. Grinding her jaw, Sylvia refused to look at him. She tugged at his fingers with the appearance of politeness, trying to disentangle herself. Her fingernails left red marks in his skin. “Don’t do that, the guards are watching” he hissed, keeping his face set in a friendly smile. He steered her back in the direction they had come from. “For God’s sake, I am _not_ your enemy, Sylvia.”

“The White Rose Group would probably have something to say about that.” She dropped her hands from his bitterly and let herself be steered, still refusing to look him in the face. “I read all about that. Who are you really, Doug?”

“Don’t start distrusting me again. You know me by now.”

“I don’t know you at all. And it’s been _years_! How can you have the nerve to say I know you? I hear things and I read things and I try to compare that to the _you_ I knew…that night we tried to free the King…I trusted you then, at last. I thought you were dead and I knew I had been so wrong about you. And then. The SS. The bloody _SS_?” Her voice rose out of control and he shook her gently, pulling her along through the crowd. “I never quite got the measure of you Doug” she continued, her voice now under control “Everyone says-” she broke off and stopped dead, eyes widening like an angry animal.

“Not him” she whispered, not turning her head. Chin rigidly up, she stared coldly into the eyes of Huth. He stood a few metres away, casually, feet apart, a thin smile splayed across his features. He had chosen a plain grey suit for their departure, nondescript and a bit worn. To passers-by he resembled a low-paid bureaucrat. To Sylvia he resembled daylight Death.

“I know exactly who he is” she whispered furiously to Archer. She tasted iron in her mouth and gripped her bag furiously, afraid to break eye contact with the thin man now slowly pacing towards them. How could the passers-by not notice him? Jet-lagged men and women parted easily for the nondescript figure in his worn suit. She felt as if they should fall to the floor lifeless at his touch, should tremble and try to scream as breath left their lungs. Archer, the bastard, called across to him, still gripping her arm.

“We are just going to get a coffee.” He indicated a tiny café across the lobby “we have so much to catch up on, but it would probably bore you, wouldn’t it?”

“Of course.” The cold eyes bored into her, the colour of ice in filthy water, eyes that saw your soul and despised it. “We have forty minutes, I think?”

Archer checked his watch. “A little under.”  

“Plenty of time to catch up. And then we have to go, of course. Don’t cut it fine, though – we cannot miss our flight because of something – stupid.” He gave Sylvia a grimly assessing look. “I will be over here – remember don’t cut it fine. We cannot be _stupid_.”

They made their way slowly to the tiny café, a cluster of tables clinging to a booth-sized counter, arm in arm like old lovers. Neither spoke except to order. Sylvia found herself trembling almost imperceptibly, like a bowstring under tension as she set down her cup. The bitter smell reached her nostrils. She cast a glance through the busy crowds, to the bench where a lean figure toyed with his newspaper. Daylight Death.

“So” she said slowly “what have you been up to?”


End file.
